Eight Till Twelve Poem by Simon Bridges

I could see love with my ears closed whilst
watching a conversation one word in front,
opposite a young farmer orders a dirty pint,
I'd never met one,
later I found his constitution
spread across a tiled floor.

As the takings are unrolled to three metres,
déjà vu takes me to a time I had not trusted myself,
secretly, a twenty one milligram patch leaches the
drug of necessity into my breast,
and I favour my nails to pistachio,
and a nick in the waitress's tights
to channel nintey-six post watershed.